Horseshoes and Hand Grenades
by Devious Decepticon
Summary: Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades", right? Try explaining that to a pissed off medic who's had a rotten day...


Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN TRANSFORMERS! Trust me, if I did, I'd be freakin' rich right about now. Unfortunately, that's not the case…I'm making absolutely NO money off this, so don't even start thinking it…

Dedication: This if for my wonderful artist friend, Becka! She's drawn me some awesome pictures, and written me some equally as awesome fanfics, so it's about stinkin' time I returned the favor! First in a series of three gift fics…

Warning: This story contains slash! Ya don't like it, don't read it; simple as that.

Author's Note: The dedication pretty much sums everything up…NO FLAMES PLEASE! Constructive criticism/beta offers are always welcome, but being rude is not. If you want to be rude, then go do it somewhere else, please. Otherwise, I hope you all enjoy it, and don't forget to tell me what you think!

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

It had been a long…_long_ day.

The twins had come in earlier with severely fried circuitry, due to a seemingly "harmless" under-the-chassis firecracker war…followed closely thereafter by Bluestreak, who seemed to have tangled his hands together, and gotten them tied to his chevron with the string of an unwieldy Transformer-sized energon yo-yo…and he preceded Prowl, who'd been caught in the crossfire of a nasty Silly String fight that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had initiated not long after their release from the medbay; he had that horrid plastic mess clogging his air intakes, and was struggling to get enough oxygen cycling throughout his systems.

So needless to say, poor Ratchet looked about ready to blow a gasket when Ironhide came limping in, blackened from head to toe and covered in what appeared to be gunpowder residue.

"G'devening Ratch," he said cheerfully, showing himself in and taking a seat on the nearest table. "Could ya look me over? Make sure nothin's wrong?"

It took a moment for the CMO to cool himself down before he growled from between locked jaws, _"What_ did you _do_, Ironhide?"

Ironhide looked a bit startled; he was used to seeing his bondmate a bit cranky, it came with the job as the Autobots' medic, and it was a bit of his appeal…but to see him like this meant he must've had a pretty rotten day, and that he wouldn't be particularly forgiving of any more shenanigans.

Maybe a diversion would cause his anger to subside a bit. "Did tha twins bother ya today?" he questioned, reaching out to put a hand on the other mech's shoulder. "'Cause if they did, ah'll-"

"_Yes_, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were a nuisance today…" Ratchet glared at the mech seated before him. "_No_, I don't think any vigilante justice from you will be necessary." He marched up to the examination table, planted his feet firmly apart, and put his hands on his hips before seething, "And just what kind of mischief did you get yourself into that requires an examination from me?"

"Ah…" The mech in question looked nervous, and sheepishly rubbed the back of his helm with his hand. "Ya see…"

It was at this particular moment that his subspace decided to hiccup; an empty wooden crate fell from it, and shattered into a pile of wooden wreckage on the sterile tile floor. Ratchet's gaze snapped brutally onto Ironhide, who looked as though he just swallowed his own tongue. Slowly, the medic crouched down, rummaged through the mound of rubble, and felt his anger come to a scalding boil; with a shaking hand, he extracted half of a board, ignoring the possibility of splinters painfully lodging themselves into his joints, and held up his discovery for the other to see.

Painfully obvious red lettering jumped out from the plain, brown wood:

"_**TNT"**_

"I thought we had an agreement…" The CMO clenched his hand, snapping the incriminating evidence in half. "I thought we discussed this, Ironhide! You agreed to stop messing with explosives if I-"

"Stopped becoming so overwhelmed at work," finished Ironhide hotly, his face now twisting into a glare. "You haven't kept up yer end of the bargain, either! So don't ya go startin' about _my_ problems if ya can't even control _yer_ problems, yet!"

Ratchet stared at his bondmate in shocked silence; he wasn't sure if he wanted to slap him, throw something at him, or do a combination of both. However, something slightly different happened instead.

"I do it because I_WORRY!" _The weapons specialist eyed the mech like a ticking time bomb as he grasped both of his shoulders and stood shaking before him, watching with wide optics as his friend's composure began to unravel. He cupped his face in his hand, and croaked, "You could have been _so_ close to receiving a mortal wound…"

At hearing this, Ironhide couldn't help but smile. "Close only counts in horseshoes an' hand grenades, Ratch."

Ratchet looked mortified, but then relaxed his faceplates, and gave a wary smile in return. "I love you…"

His bondmate opened his arms, enfolding him in a reassuring embrace and gently rubbing his back. "Ah love you too, Ratch."

"_Whew…" The red mech sighed to himself. "Dodged a bullet there, didn't Ah?"_

Rousing himself from his stupor, Ironhide leaned down, and placed a dizzying kiss on his medic's lips; his tongue almost desperately pleaded for entrance, but was relieved to find that it was being granted easily. He ran his tongue along the roof of his lover's mouth, writing their names in what would be an elegant, looping script, feeling his internals quiver as Ratchet moaned into his mouth. Hands began to wander, prodding between seams in armor, tweaking sensitive wires, expertly groping afts, and delicately skimming sides in an effort to map out each detail of the other's body as accurately as possible. Without warning, their cooling systems kicked into overdrive, frantically working to cool the rising core temperatures of the mechs currently entangled in one another; it soon became difficult to determine where one ended and another began, their limbs were so intricately woven together. At last, unable to support the other's weight, they both collapsed onto the table, cooling systems whirring and optics dark with desire.

"Ya know," rasped Ironhide, tracing the crosses on his lover's shoulders with a shaking finger. "Ah worry about you too, Ratchet."

"I know…" The medic placed a feverish kiss on his forehead, and leaned down to snuggle deep into the other's arms.

It was only after ten minutes that Ironhide realized that something was missing.

"Hey, Ratch?"

"Yes?"

"Could ya examine me now?"

Very slowly, Ratchet propped himself up on one elbow, his joints quietly groaning with the effort. "Are you joking?" He asked with a rare grin, his still-darkened optics glinting with amusement. Ironhide shrugged, and he let out a deep, rich chuckle.

"If you're well enough to do that, you're fine."

At this, the weapons specialist couldn't help but leer at his bondmate, a very familiar look appearing on his blackened faceplates.

"Then Ah suppose the only real question…" he licked his lips hungrily, staring at the mech lying next to him. "Would be if _you're_ well enough to return with _me_ to mah quarters."

An uncharacteristic smirk overtook the medic's face, and Ironhide knew he'd be in for one _very_ long night.

"I'm _always_ well enough for that."


End file.
